


Hobbit Heart

by b_s_s_rr_s



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, John remembers being bilbo, thats it thats the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22995925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_s_s_rr_s/pseuds/b_s_s_rr_s
Summary: John wakes up feeling a little hobbity.
Kudos: 31





	Hobbit Heart

John Watson woke one morning expecting a visit from his lovely nephew. The boy had gone to visit his friends the night before, worrying him sick, and was due back just before second breakfast. 

Only, that wasn't correct, since John had no nephews or nieces to speak of, just one alcoholic sister and her wreckage of a marriage. And what on earth was second breakfast? 

Shaking his head, John decided that this, as with most things in his life, was Sherlock's fault. Somehow. Perhaps that jam wasn't quite what he thought it was… 

He went through the motions of getting ready rather mechanically, mind elsewhere as he went through his closet. There were his lovely - yes Sherlock,  _ lovely _ \- jumpers, but something itched at the back of his mind, wanting an article of clothing that was simply not there. 

Sighing, he reasoned that it wasn't the worst day to dress down, the clinic didn't need him and if Sherlock's recent sulk held strong then he wouldn't need to go out at all. 

He had tugged on a bathrobe before he fully realized it, at once irritated it was the wrong color, texture, thing entirely, and at himself for being so completely out of it so as to imagine something he'd never owned before! 

John had barely toed on his slippers before kicking them off entirely, padding into the kitchen barefoot to make himself some tea. The tea had of course been replaced with some sort of green substance John didn't really want to think about, and so he stomped over to his armchair in a bit of a huff. 

He was in need of a good puff of his pipe, except he'd never been one to smoke, avoided it strongly, didn't even own a pipe-

John groaned, smacking both hands to his cheeks as if that would help clear his mind. Something was amiss that morning, and he desperately wanted to find out what. 

He was Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Doctor Watson, he had a bad shoulder, a psychosomatic limp, a mad roommate - 

John paused. Where was Sherlock?

Getting to his feet, his decidedly non hairy, human feet, and wasn't that odd, John made his way to Sherlock's room, noting the lack of sound. The lunatic had a habit of running off of course, but John was sure he hadn't heard the door open that morning, and with the rest of the flat empty as it was there was only one place Sherlock could be. 

Knocking on the door, John held his breath until there was a muffled  _ enter _ , confirming Sherlock was inside his room. The door made no sound as it swung open, treating John to the sight of his roommate, his roommate's room, and his roommate's disaster nest. 

The kitchen had been _ too  _ empty, John realized abruptly, no trace of mangled equipment or midway experiments to be found. Instead, they were piled haphazardly around Sherlock's bed, stacked and shiny on the floor. Cocooned in a blanket was the man himself, only the top of his curls visible in the swath of blankets.

He had dug out the winter supply then, John mused distractedly, one hand firmly on the doorknob. There was a shuffle under the blanket, and Sherlock's face emerged, eyes narrowed as he looked at his friend. 

"John," Sherlock began, pausing to consider his words, "I have the distinct urge to  _ eat _ you." 

John closed the door firmly behind him, taking several large steps away from his madman of a roommate and deciding that that was a good day to be outdoors after all, even if the thought of shoes made him slightly ill. 

He'd wrestled himself into his normal clothes with only a bit of struggle, jamming on his shoes and stomping down the stairs before Sherlock could emerge from his lair and make a bother of himself. 

John had been walking a good twenty minutes before he realized he'd made it to the nearby park, instinct taking him right to the garden. With a great sigh, he plopped down next to the gardenia bush, ignoring the few odd stares. 

He was John Watson, blogger and veteran and former surgeon, that much hadn't changed. But if he let himself think, let the dirt under his palms fill between his fingers, there was something else. 

A nephew, a sweet young boy and his good friends, one truly nasty cousin, a loyal old gardener and heaps of respectable cousins come to knock at his green door. There was an old wizard, tricky dear old friend, bringing a horde of dwarrows and their king. Dwarrows, not dwarves, and wasn’t that strange.

John Watson had lost men, lost his brothers in arms, but gentlehobbit Bilbo Baggins hadn't quite ever gotten over losing this king, and the princes with him. Hadn't gotten over losing his ring, his lovely precious ring that sang and shone and- 

John didn't think he wanted to ponder over that anymore, didn't want to let it consume his thoughts any further. But how strange it was, to remember such a life so clearly. Probably Sherlock's fault, he decided. 

And as far as John was concerned, that was that. He gave one last look over the garden, stood, dusted himself off and promptly went to purchase some plants of his own. The least he could do for the memory of Bilbo and his long journey was try a hand at some tomatoes, prizewinning or otherwise. 

It took the afternoon to set them up nicely, with lots of internet consulting and dragging bags of dirt and sorting pots and while he wasn't quite barefoot gardening in the Shire, this soothed something in John that had been missing since he woke up. 

At some point Sherlock had dragged himself out of his room, blankets bunched up around him as he flopped on the couch, eyeing John like he was some sort of petty thief. Or, more accurately, burglar, John thought with a grin. 

Dusting his hands, John set about threatening Sherlock thoroughly, promising pain and withholding of tea if any of his plants should fall victim to an experiment. Sherlock took it well enough, making some sort of growling noise as he burrowed into his blankets to hide from John's preemptive scolding. 

Borrowing some tea from Mrs. Hudson, John took his seat and stared off in the general direction of the Sherlock lump. 

"I think I was a hobbit at some point. Small folk, not much on conflict, though quite the gossipy buggers." John chuckled, holding back a laugh as dark curls popped out of an end of the blanket, a very different place than last time. John couldn't even begin to imagine how Sherlock was contorted under there, but at least he was listening. 

"Went on some long journey, woefully unprepared, following a group of madmen on an impossible quest. So not much has changed I think, just down to one man, though he's madder than the rest combined." John said, smiling affectionately as Sherlock's suspicious face emerged, nose slightly wrinkled. 

"I had a lot of gold. Then I was felled by an arrow. You were there. It was your fault, actually." Sherlock sniffed, burrowing back until only his eyes poked out. 

"Seems I've made a habit of fascinating you. Though I can't promise I won't trick you this time around, otherwise you'll never eat." John joked, chuckling at Sherlock's indignant huff. Only Sherlock could gloss over the more interesting bits of being a dragon. 

After John finished his tea, he washed the cup out, set it to dry and pulled out his laptop, opening a blank document. With one last glance at his roommate, now a still lump on the couch, John cracked his knuckles and began to write. Or rather, rewrite, but this time with the benefit of technology and a great deal of removal from events. This time, he didn’t quite break down when writing of his lost dwarrows, didn’t really hesitate to write of the more embarrassing parts of being a snot rag. This time, instead of Frodo at his knee it was Sherlock over his shoulder, correcting snippily that Smaug was a great deal more intelligent than written,  _ John _ . This time, it only took until the tomatoes grew to finish writing. 

After that, nothing much changed, even if he had a new propensity towards gardening, plus, a piece of writing to defend from Sherlock's grasp (no, the dragon did no such thing Sherlock stop telling  _ lies _ -). And of course, if he found idle chatter with Ms. Hudson soothingly like conversations in the Shire, if he found nights out with Lestrade not quite bawdy enough, if a curse not quite in English slipped out every once in a while, well. 

However, he did develop an odd little habit of going around barefoot where least advisable. The hobbit was only in his heart, not his feet, after all. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I read something where it was Bilbo remembering John, which, curious, so I did it the other way around. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
